A Familiar Stranger, Tom Hiddleston
by rawrlsy
Summary: He telephones you. His voice fills you, but you know that you have never met this person before. But perhaps you have. You meet up for the first time, and how does the meeting go? Set in 1920's America, it's just a short little thing I wrote when I was (and I still am) completely smitten by this man. The setting's romantic and I thought, why not? Enjoy!


The skylines of the city rise high in front of you. The church's turrets pierce the sky while clouds pass over them, the turrets cutting through the sky. Even though you are one that would appreciate the busting New York City, your mind wanders far away.

You scan the street for the café that he spoke to you about, a gloved hand tightly clenching to the paper that you hastily scribbled the address on as he chattered away on the phone. A harsh wind threatens to blow your elegant hat away, but you grip on it, suddenly concerned that the wind will mess up your hair. You tell yourself you have to look magnificent for him. For _him._

_Broadway and Fifth._ This is where he told you the café is going to be. You scan the kitty corners almost desperately, until something catches your eye. It is not _Luigi's Café,_ no. It is not the newspaper boy shouting for customers. It is him. The man on the phone.

Thomas.

It is the man on the phone.

Before you realize, you cross the street, your eyes fixed on him as though he might disappear. You are confused by the sense of urgency blossoming in your chest. You hardly know this man – you have met him once or twice – yet the soft voice that spoke to you on over the telephone was captivating and sincere. You know in your heart that he is unfamiliar to you, but at the same time, you feel like you have known him all your life.

Your eyes are trained on him. He stares pensively out of the window, lost in his own thoughts, as though nothing can disturb him. Even when you cross his line of sight to enter through the door, he does not give the smallest indication that he acknowledges you. You swallow nervously and force your way into the café.

Even as you approach him, he does not move. Your hand reaches out to touch his shoulder, but you draw it back; there is something about his eyes that tells you that he will come around at his own time. You pull your hand away and seat yourself across of him. The sound of the scraping chair seems out of place in the presence of such a serene man.

You wait for him to notice you, but still, he stares out the window. You pull your gloves off and delicately fold your hands across your lap as you studied him. Never have you seen a man so beautiful. He has dark, wavy hair that appears to be ripples on his head. Long, elegant eye lashes cover his sparking gray eyes; they are so long that you can see the shadows they cast upon his high and graceful cheekbones. His mouth is set in a straight line, and you know how deep in thought he is. His left hand touches his stubbled chin while his right hand rests on the table, next to his unfinished whiskey. You can see the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. Breathe in. Breathe out.

He seems to stay that way for a while longer, although you are not sure as to how long he continues to stare. Ten minutes? An hour? Even still, you study him. His face, his shoulders, his chest, his arms. He said before that he will have to leave soon. Leave? Leave to where?

You are so entranced by him that, when he moves, you jump ever so slightly. His eyes focus on you, steady and calm. Before you know it, your mouth opens and you begin to speak.

"What were you thinking about?"

The corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. The smallest smile. But he means it with every fiber of his being, his soul. And it reaches into you.

"You," he replies, so softly that you strain your ears to listen to him.

You do not know what to say back. You try to return the smile, but not before you drop your eyes.

"You look lovely."

Your eyes return to his face again, and this time, you smile with your heart.

He takes a sip of his whiskey, but not enough to be noticeable. The usual calmness in his eyes disappears as he set his glass down.

"What's wrong?" you ask quietly, afraid of breaking what he holds around him.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"Of course I remember! We met in the shop, then you telephoned me."

Another smile, this one a little sad. "No, you don't remember." He takes another drink. "I went to secondary school with you, don't you remember? Little Tommy."

You do remember. Pity floods you as you remember how people treated him. _"Worthless." "Sick." "Deformed." "Doesn't deserve to live."_

"Do you remember?" he gently presses.

You give a small, imperceptible nod. "I tried." You look up. "I hardly recognize you."

The smile falls away from his face. "I grew up. And now, there's a war," he says as he stares out of the window again. "War."

"When you telephoned me, I heard voices in the background." You can feel the wave of sadness as your voice begins to shake. "You've been ordered to -"

You break off as he turns his attention back towards you, his eyes taking you in as though you are everything in the world to him. He sees your mind, your desires, your sorrows, your soul. You try to look away, but you cannot. He has you locked in his gaze, and you never want to turn away.

"I have this cancer that the doctors speak of," he says, never taking his eyes off of you. "I have had it since I was a little boy. It hasn't managed to kill me, until now." A tear begins to form at the corner of his eye. "It's killing me, just when I have found you again. I've been looking everywhere, and then I have to let you go."

You are in shock. "What do you mean, find me?"

"Find you. You helped me when I was little, standing up for the little sick boy." Sorrow fills his voice. "You did not know me then, but you pushed them away when they were trying to hit me. Remember?"

"I remember," you say, finally telling the truth. "But then I ran away."

"You were small. They daren't chase you." He takes another small sip from his drink. "I promised myself that I would thank my savior."

"I'm your savior?"

"Yes." His eyes crinkle with a wide smile. "I became a soldier to fight for those you need help. And without you, I wouldn't be here today." He touches his left side, as though in pain. "And this is killing me. This cancer." He pauses, his eyes glazing over as he applies pressure to this side. He exhales forcefully, and returns his gaze to you. "Now I'm off to this war."

You feel tears threatening to choke you. "I don't understand," you say, your voice thick. "I hardly know you, and yet I feel like I've known you all my life."

"It is because you protected me, and somewhere, you knew it was me when we met the other day. And you knew it even more when I phoned you." His mouth is set in a tight line; not out of anger, but out of frustration. "And I've got to go."

He stands abruptly, sliding his whiskey glass across the table. You make a move to stand with him, but he holds a thin hand up to stop you.

"Perhaps there's a cure," you whisper. "Please don't go."

"It's the 1920's, darling," he says soothingly. "I will die soon." He rounds the table and stands next to you, his hand extended, unsure of what to do with it.

"You can have life if you don't go," you plea.

He is close enough to you that you can feel the rumble in his chest as he chuckles. You feel a warm, fluttering hand on the side of your face as he cups it, his hands slightly trembling. "As you have protected me, I will protect you. I will shoot every plane that comes anywhere close, just to know that you will sleep another night."

The cold seeps into your face as he takes his hand away. You almost look at him, you want to look at him, but your eyes remain fixed on the whiskey glass. His footsteps begin to recede. "Thomas."

His footfalls stop. "Yes, my love?"

You cannot help yourself. You swivel around, and you see him with a hand on the door, ready to open. His jacket drapes over his shoulder as he is readying to place his hat on top of his head. Tears gather up in your eyes as you take him in, one last time. The outside light outline his thin and sinewy figure, and his face is clear as a bright, sunny day. You look into his eyes, stormy, gray, and strong.

"No." You shake your head. "You know what I am going to say already."

A single tear falls down your cheeks as he gives you a smile that will outlast the sun. He places his hat on his head and walks out of the café, the door's bell tinkling behind him. You quickly turn to watch him walk past the window, and you see him wipe one solitary tear from his cheek. Then, he is gone.

"Thomas William Hiddleston," you whisper, "I love you."


End file.
